


Castling on the Kingside

by Masu_Trout



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minutemen-Aligned Sole Survivor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:27:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22610020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masu_Trout/pseuds/Masu_Trout
Summary: The Castle's been retaken; the Minutemen are starting to regain their former glory. Preston can't afford to rest, not when there's so much more todo.Nate makes him take some time off anyway.
Relationships: Preston Garvey/Male Sole Survivor
Comments: 10
Kudos: 63
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Castling on the Kingside

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anneapocalypse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anneapocalypse/gifts).



Even from this distant corner, the Castle's halls echo with the sound of people. Newly-recruited Minutemen, members of the old guard wanting to rejoin, settlers come looking for a place to call home and a dream to be a part of. Everyone's here under the same ancient roof, sharing the same hopes.

It feels like a beginning. Like watching green shoots sprout from irradiated ground. It's—

Preston sways, knees going weak as blackness swims behind his eyes, and he only barely manages to catch himself against the wall before his legs crumple entirely. One hand wrapped protectively around the sack of dried mutfruit he's carrying, the other holding himself steady, he sinks to a crouch in the hallway and tries to catch his breath.

He stays there a moment, even after the worst of the exhaustion has passed: forehead pressed against the cool stone, blood pounding in his ears to match the beat of his heart. It's almost quiet here. Just loud enough for him to know he's safe, that there's someone else out there watching the walls. Set the mutfruit sack down to serve as a pillow, tilt his hat over his brow, and he's pretty sure he could fall asleep like this.

That's the problem, really. His body is desperate for a moment's rest, but even a moment is more than he can afford. He still needs to finish bringing the last of the supplies indoors, get their newest recruits into some halfway presentable uniforms, ask around to see if any of their new settlers have experience as a tailor, organize a new patrol schedule to keep the mirelurks and the raiders from getting too bold, set up a group to test which of the soil around here might be healthiest for starting crops...

There's a lot. And he doesn't want the work to ever end, every moment he spends no longer _the last_ of the Minutemen feels like a dream, but he's also starting to understand why Goodneighbor's mayor is so fond of, well. _Chemical recreation_ is the polite term, as far as he's heard. _Shit-tons of chems_ is the less-polite one.

He's not about to turn to Mentats. Or Psycho, or Buffout, or any other thing Hancock could offer him. But maybe just a moment longer here, a chance to rest in the shelter of the Castle, wouldn't be so bad.

Preston lets his eyes drift closed, resting his head against the stone wall—

And of course that's when he hears footsteps echoing down the hall. Coming his way.

Preston hefts the mutfruit sack back into his arms, scrambles to his feet just a second too slow to come off as casual as the General himself rounds the corner.

"Hey, Preston, I... Preston?" His expression goes from excitement to concern as he reaches out to steady him. "Preston, _shit_ , are you okay?"

The General—Nate, when Preston's not on duty, and Nate when he _is_ on duty whenever he manages to wheedle Preston into ignoring his actual title—is an odd-looking man. Not in a bad way. Really, he's almost distractingly handsome. Just... different. The first time they met, some part of Preston distrusted him without knowing why; it wasn't until later, when Nate earned his first irradiated bite scar fending off a pack of mutts, that he realized he'd been reacting to how uncomfortably perfect he was. No radiation damage, no ragged scars, no signs of malnutrition or thirst or disease. The only people with that kind of walked-out-of-a-pre-war-catalogue look are fresh synths and Institute spies... and, apparently, people who _literally_ walked out of the pre-war era thanks to spending a whole lot of time frozen.

The General's earned more than his fair share of scars since they first met—right now he's sporting a fresh new patch of raw skin right over his eyebrow, courtesy of the mirelurk queen's acid—but none of them have managed to make him any less handsome. 

"I'm fine, General—"

" _Nate._ "

"— _Nate_ ," Preston corrects himself. "I'm fine, Nate, really."

"Really?" Nate asks. "Because you look like you've been trying to outrun a deathclaw and arm-wrestle a super mutant. At the same time." His expression gentles. His hand is warm on Preston's shoulder. "Seriously, Preston, what's going on?"

"I... it's nothing," Preston says. "Just—excitement, I guess. There's a lot I want to do now that we have the Castle to call ours."

"Yeah, you're not kidding. We missed you at dinner last night too." Nate frowns. "When exactly was the last time you ate?"

Preston winces. "Ah, uh. Not too long ago? I didn't have much of an appetite—"

"Mm-hmm. And when did you last sleep?"

Shame he doesn't have the strength to run; right now, throwing himself out the nearest window feels like a _fantastic_ option. Preston squirms under the force of Nate's worried stare, trying to count back the hours and giving up once he realizes the answer won't make Nate any happier, all-too-aware of just how bad a liar he's always been.

"It doesn't matter," he says finally. "I don't need to be coddled, all right? I've gone through worse than this for much worse causes."

Some nights when he closes his eyes, he opens them and he's in the middle of the Quincy Massacre all over again. By now he's used to it—knows it isn't real, that he's trapped in a nightmare—but he's never once managed to wake himself up before he's watched everyone die all over again. If he's not careful enough here, if something goes wrong at the Castle and he isn't around to catch it... 

He can't add another nightmare to ones he already has. He _can't_.

"I... damn it, Preston." Nate sighs. "Look." And then he plucks his own tricorn hat—the General's uniform itself, elegant even with all the dirt and dust and blood it's seen—off of his head and slaps it down on Preston's instead, right on top of the hat he's already wearing. "I want you to know, from the bottom of my heart, this is not _your general_ speaking. This is the man you lost fifteen hands of poker in a row to three weeks ago."

Preston laughs as he touches the brim of his new hat tower. It's a balancing act, with his arms still full of mutfruit, but he manages to rub two fingers along the edge of the brim. General's luck. It's a good sign. "You really have to remind me of that, huh?"

"You bet I do, you still owe me twenty caps. And... look, I get it. I really, _really_ get it. But the world isn't going to end while you're asleep. All you're doing with this is wearing yourself out."

"I trust you," Preston says, because no one's ever done half so much for Preston as Nate has, "It's just—"

"You're constantly worried one wrong move is going to fuck up everything for everyone you care about?"

Nate's smile looks brittle at the edges, like it could shatter at any moment.

"I," Preston says, "Uh. Yeah, that." And then he thinks about what it really means for Nate to have been frozen, about just how much of a mess he'd be if he'd lost a spouse and a son and a whole entire world, and he says, " _Oh_."

He sighs and sets the sack of dried mutruit down against the nearest wall. It'll keep there for a few days, at least. Probably longer; mutfruit's sturdy stuff. Terrifyingly so. "I'm sorry, General. I'm just...."

"General? I'm not the one with the hat on right now." Nate grips his shoulder tighter. "And you don't need to apologize. I'd be a liar if I told you I didn't understand the impulse."

Preston nods and, on a whim, brings one of his newly-freed-up hands to rest on top of Nate's. His skin's rough and warm; just the feeling of another human being's touch is a comfort. 

_No_ , he thinks. More than that. Just the feeling of _Nate's_ touch is a comfort. There's no one else PReston would want here.

They're both left standing there, a little bit awkwardly, neither of them speaking and neither of them trying to pull away. 

Preston should excuse himself, he knows, find himself a corner with a spare bed to curl up in and finally stop making Nate worry, but—

"Hey," he says, "sorry, but... would you mind hanging around? Just for a bit?"

Monopolizing the Minutemen's general's time isn't exactly appropriate—but he thinks he can forgive himself for asking, just this once.

Nate grins. "Absolutely."

—

Nate finds him a room that he claims isn't being used, with a bed and a table and even a lock on the door. (From the tiny touches of decor—a few rolls of duct tape on the desk, a gun sitting half-scrapped in the corner with its screws all removed—Preston has more than a few suspicions of whether or not this room is _actually_ unclaimed, but he doesn't protest.) Even brings him a plate of food, with a grimace and an apologetic, "All I could find in the kitchens was tato cakes, sorry," as if Preston hasn't eaten much, _much_ worse.

It's only when he starts in on his meal that he realizes he's absolutely ravenous. He's pretty sure deathclaws tear into their prey less enthusiastically than he tears into the tatoes. Hell, he's starting to understand how _ferals_ must feel. 

When he's done, he hovers, uncertain, next to the table. Is it rude to just lay down in a man's bed that he's steadfastly pretending isn't his bed without so much as asking? Or is worse to ask?

He never had to deal with these things back before. Here, though... Nate's his general, sure, but he's also the man who rescued him from raiders, and the man he's practically made a career out of losing to in poker and cap-toss and every other card game the two of them can think up, the man who brings Preston on adventures to clear out feral nests or hunt in search of lost treasure or explore some strange Old World relic that means nothing to Preston and everything to him, the man whose smile when he's drenched in blood and sweat and cleaning mirelurk bits off himself can make Preston's heart do funny things in its chest.

He's... well, he's _Nate_. And the more Preston gets to know him, the more that means.

Preston's made a lot of mistakes in his life. He doesn't want to screw this up.

"Nate," he says, "thanks. For everything."

"Of course," Nate says. "And"—he gestures towards the bed—"I don't know if you're the sort who sleeps better with noise or not, but I was just going to work on getting the parts out of some scrap weapons I found. I can clear out, if it would bother you—"

"It wouldn't be a bother." Preston can't think of anything that would bother him _less_ than Nate safe and sound a few feet away from him. 

He doesn't move, though; he's frozen stock-still by uncertainty. Doing nothing is safe. It means he gets to keep things just the way they are: a settlement and a goal to work towards and an easy friendship with Nate. Doing something means, well...

Means ruining things for himself, probably. He's a real master of wrecking the good that comes his way. And it's only more proof of that that even knowing what the smart answer is, he still steps forward to close the gap between himself and Nate, reaches out a hand to rest it on the lapels of Nate's coat.

Nate's sitting on the edge of the table, a slouch in his spine and one hand resting against the rough wood. He looks up, just a little, to meet Preston's eyes.

"Hey there," he says, gentle, a crooked smile pulling at one corner of his mouth.

"Hey," Preston returns, and then, before he can back out, says, "I... look. I really mean it, you know. The thanks. You've done a lot for me."

"Right back at'cha."

"Yeah." Preston can't help but laugh. He can't really imagine Nate needing anyone as much as Preston needed Nate back in Concord, or when traveling to Sanctuary, or when retaking the Castle, or when—

Well, he's relied on Nate a lot, that's for sure.

But Nate frowns. "I'm serious. You think I would've known what the hell I was doing out here if I didn't have you showing me how to tell my ass from a molerat's face?"

Well, _there's_ a figure of speech Preston hasn't heard before. Nate really has been getting some Goodneighbor influence in him. He shrugs and says, "I mean—you would've figured it out, one way or another. Not like I'm the only person you could've bumped into out in the wastes."

"Yeah, and half of them would take my caps, and the other half would kill me and _then_ take my caps." Nate snorts. "Nah. I was lucky I met you, you know? We're good together."

That, at least, Preston can happily agree with. "Here's to keeping that going, then," Preston says, so nervous he's sure Nate can _feel_ it in his voice as easily as hear it, and then he leans down and kisses him.

It's a lot. It's a decision he can't un-make. And the moment their lips press together every single reason why this was a terrible idea floods into his sleep-deprived head. He pulls back, stammering out apologies—

And Nate presses one hand to his own mouth, smiling. He doesn't look angry, or embarrassed, or like he's trying to figure out how to let Preston down easy. A little startled, maybe—but mostly he just looks pleased.

"Huh," he says. " _Huh_. You less married to the chain of command than I thought, then? Because I am _not_ complaining, let me tell you, just—surprised."

"What?" Preston asks. The question's so far from anything Preston expected to be asked that it might as well be out on the moon. He can't even begin to parse what Nate's getting at.

"You know— _General_ this, and _General_ that. No matter how much I complained. You seemed so intent on it, I thought I'd ruined my chances with you the moment I accepted the hat."

Preston frowns. "What does you being the general have to do with your relationships?"

"...And I keep forgetting military ranks have a different sort of meaning out here than they did back when I learned the ropes. Minutemen don't over-worry themselves about things like fraternization, I take it?" At Preston's uncomprehending stare, he snorts. "Danse would get what I mean."

"Danse isn't here," says Preston, because the first thing he wants to say— _I'm not sure Danse gets much of anything about people_ —isn't very kind, and the second— _who cares what Danse thinks_ —manages to be even worse.

"He sure isn't," Nate agrees, a laugh in the lines of his face, "and I'm glad about that, because I think he'd be pretty damn scandalized if I did this." And, without another word, he reaches up and pulls Preston back in and kisses him again.

It's a good kiss, Preston thinks dazedly, easily top three he's ever had—and then he has to revise it a few positions upward when Nate does something with his tongue that makes Preston go weak in the knees. He stumbles a little, shaky from surprise or happiness or pure exhaustion, and Nate catches and helps guide him down so he's facing Nate, straddling his lap with his knees on either side of Nate's hips.

 _Like a real cowboy_ , he thinks, remembering the faded old pre-war serials he's read, and he can't help but laugh into the kiss.

"What's so funny?" Nate leans back, cheeks flushed and shirt rumpled.

"Nothing," Preston tells him, "I'm just—happy."

It's almost a surprise to realize he's telling the truth, almost a bigger one to realize how _strongly_ he feels it. 

The future is a strange, fragile thing. Everything he's built might shatter in his hands the moment he looks away. But today he has shelter and food and friends, he has the Minutemen rising from the ashes of their former glory—and he has Nate, sitting under him, staring up at him with a look on his face that makes Preston's cheeks go hot.

Nothing lasts forever. But if can go on even a month longer, a week, a day, an hour, a heartbeat—he'll take it.

Preston kisses Nate again, and feels the future in his hands.


End file.
